Harry Potter and the Rightful Heirs
by Demon Overlord Laharl
Summary: [post DH] HG RHr  In the aftermath of Voldemort's demise, choices are made  choices which will have a direct effect on the future of each character. Soon a new evil threatens the world  how will the various choices affect the new battle?
1. Prologue: The Aftermath

**Harry Potter and the Rightful Heirs **

**Prologue: The Aftermath **

The fierce wind echoed throughout the trees. Rather than bringing an ominous feeling to Hogwarts, as it had done earlier that night, Harry felt it lifting a large burden from his shoulder. The cold wind at his back sent shivers up his spine as he stood at the only place he had ever really called home, in front of the headstone of the only man that he had ever thought of in some means as a parent.

He was not really sure why he was here. It just felt right after the events earlier that night. Talking to Dumbledore's portrait just wasn't the same. In silence, he bowed his head to pay respect to the memories of his headmaster and all those who had sacrificed their lives to end the evil that was Voldemort.

_It's finally over._

The chill wind blew another gust, the cold bringing a slight discomfort to him as his body shivered. For the first time since he had entered Hogwarts as a small eleven-year-old boy, Harry really felt lost. His whole life had been devoted to extinguishing the threat that Voldemort posed to the Wizarding World, and now that the threat and evil was vanquished, he really didn't know what to do.

It was ludicrous. Harry's whole life had been devoted to destroying the one person who had been standing between him and a normal life. Now that the evil that had kept his life in a state of danger had been vanquished, the normalcy had not just rushed into his body. As if it would be that easy.

Harry guessed he had never truly thought it through. He had simply been guided by a goal that was thrust upon him not through his own choice. Now that Voldemort was dead, there seemed to be no goal in sight – and no goal meant there was nothing to drive towards.

Of course, there was something to look forward to, he suddenly realized as his brain switched its course. It was a word that made his stomach flutter both with nervousness and excitement, a name that made all he had suffered through worth it.

_Ginny._

The smell of burning wood assailed his nostrils as he turned from Dumbledore's grave and began to walk towards Hogwarts. Glancing in the direction of the smell, he saw a blackened portion of the Forbidden Forest where the Aurors and the Order of the Phoenix were still rounding up the stray Death Eaters hours after the battle had subsided. A very minor struggle had broken out, and a most recalcitrant female Death Eater was using a free hand to beat on Kingsley Shacklebolt, attempting to escape from his clutches. Shacklebolt withdrew his wand and shouted "_Incarcerous,_" and the woman suddenly stiffened, as if constricted by unseen ropes.

Most of the Death Eaters had been caught already, and the ones who had not had fled into the woods. They would not easily be able to escape the school due to the Anti-Apparition Wards. There was only one other way out of the school from the outside, and Harry was sure that there were a few Aurors at the exit. Harry once again glanced towards the blackened area of the woods and caught Kingsley's gaze. Kingsley bore a look of extreme exasperation, but still turned and winked at Harry, silently conveying his gratitude.

Turning away from the woods, Harry entered Hogwarts and made his way to the Great Hall, where he knew Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and a whole mess of people awaited him. It was only a matter of time before the press arrived here, too, Harry thought glumly. If only Rita Skeeter somehow happened not to show up, the media just might be bearable.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Ginny, sitting glumly with the rest of the Weasley family, near the limp, lifeless body of her brother, Fred. His heart broke for her as he saw tears stream down her face. Fred wasn't the only one the Order had lost either. Only five feet away lay the lifeless bodies of Tonks, her usually vibrant pink hair now a mousy brown, and Remus Lupin, the last Marauder. Every link he had to his parents was now destroyed, now that Lupin was dead; Harry couldn't even bear to look at Tonks, the color of her hair the same as when Sirius had died. Still, even through the loss he felt, the fact that they had died for a cause, fighting for something they believed in seemed to comfort him just a bit. Lost in his thoughts, the sight of Ginny rising from the table and running towards him brought him back to reality. He opened his arms, offering her solace in his embrace. Instead, as she reached him, he found her reaction quite a bit different.

"You git! Don't…you…EVER…do…that...again!" Ginny cried, vigorously pounding on his chest with her fists.

Harry, though a bit surprised, supposed that she had a right to lash out a bit like that. He knew how close she had come to losing two people she cared about that night.

"All right," Harry said, gently clasping Ginny's arms as he helped her head reach his chest as sobs enveloped her. He let her arms down and she wrapped them around his waist, pulling him close to her. "I promise, but I needed to do it. Voldemort needed to think that I was dead."

"I know he did," she responded, in between sobs, "but I didn't––I thought…I thought I had lost you." It wasn't the response he'd have expected from Ginny; he had almost been looking forward to her spunk. It alarmed Harry to see Ginny like this; she usually was averse to crying in public, the result of living in a family with six brothers. The fact that she so easily betrayed her emotions tonight just served to demonstrate just how much a toll her brother's death had taken on her this night.

_You almost did lose me, _Harry thought, for a second his memory treading back to marching to Voldemort and the death that had been sure to follow. No, he decided, now was not the time to tell her about the near self-sacrifice he had made that night. "Ginny, you'll never lose me. Even if I die, I'm always going to be there with you."

No response sounded immediately from Ginny, who just pulled Harry tighter, as if trying to meld into one. After a beat, Harry could clearly see her mouth move; her words, however, were muffled by his chest, but Harry could swear that she had simply said, "Oh, Harry…" At the words, his insides could have melted. In the past he had come to her for comfort, and the fact that she was now doing the same attested to him the deepness of their relationship.

Still clutching Ginny, Harry tried to make the awkward shuffle to the Gryffindor table where the remaining members of the Weasley clan sat. It was a complicated dance, trying to maneuver not one, but two people to a predetermined location while locked in a comforting embrace, but somehow, after a while Harry found himself at the table. Next to Harry sat a despondent Ronald Weasley, his girlfriend and another of Harry's closest friends, Hermione, to his left. Both looked over and gave faint smiles; they too were feeling the effects of the casualties.

It was a time of mourning for the whole of the Weasley family, who had lost a cherished part of their family. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley seemed to be taking it the hardest, having now lost family members in both Great Wars. While Ron put a comforting hand on Harry's shoulder, nothing was said, and the rest of the family barely noticed as Harry sat down with Ginny on his lap.

He wanted to say something, but no words came to mind. He wanted to tell Ginny how harrowing the past months had been without her at his side, but still he refrained. It wasn't the time. Now was the aftermath; now was the time for grieving those they had lost. Harry knew how Ginny felt right now; he'd certainly been through the pain enough in his life. Harry lifted his hand to her hair and gently threaded through it soothingly, causing Ginny to relax further into him. He marveled at the flowery smell that always seemed to emanate from her, taking comfort in the sweet scent. They stayed in their embrace with an unspoken message between them for a long while, simply taking solace in the fact that they still had each other.

Harry lost track of the time until he noticed the spry figure of Professor Minerva McGonagall approach the table. Arriving at the Weasleys' table without a welcome from any single member of the family, Professor McGonagall flashed only a single fleeting frown. With a look full of concern, she placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Harry, are you alright?"

"Yes," Harry answered quickly, both his and Ginny's heads tilting upwards to meet Professor McGonagall's gaze. "Well, as alright as I can be right now, I guess."

"Good," McGonagall answered, her facial muscles relaxing as relief assuaged concern, "because I have a proposition for you that you may want to take into consideration." Harry's face scrunched a bit, confused by her words. "You may want to make sure that Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger are listening as well, it concerns them as well." Harry extended an arm to rouse Ron from his deep contemplations while Hermione's head immediately swiveled towards McGonagall.

"It comes to mind that you three have done the Wizarding World a great service, and for that we cannot thank you enough. Harry, I'm sure you could immediately be accepted for the position of Auror that you so desire, but I can't help but wonder whether you would like to come back to Hogwarts next year to acquire your N.E.W.T.S. and complete your seventh year. While I must say that there may not be a purely academic need for you to finish the year with the maturation that has taken place with you," continued McGonagall, glancing back and forth between Ginny and Harry with a knowing smile, "I'm sure another reason may influence your decision."

Without saying a word, Harry looked at Ginny, who returned the gaze, sharing the promise of a full year together, a full year without Voldemort to ruin things. Silently, they nodded to each other.

"I think I'd like that" replied Harry, bringing a meek smile to Ginny's face. His acceptance was immediately echoed by an enthusiastic Hermione.

"Well, if Hermione's going, I _guess_ I'll go," responded Ron. Education had never been much of an interest to him, but Harry guessed that Ron would be returning for a similar reason to his.

"Good, it's settled then," replied McGonagall, who bent down and placed her head near Harry's ear. "Well done, Harry; Dumbledore would be proud."

Harry smiled from ear to ear. "Thank you," he whispered back. As Professor McGonagall walked back to monitor the room, Harry's smile remained. In the face of all that had happened tonight, in spite of the evil that he had faced, regardless of the loss that had been suffered tonight, Harry couldn't help but think that he had gained something even more valuable as he gazed into the wells of Ginny's beautiful brown eyes.

The beast in his chest that had been lying dormant for nearly a year groggily stretched its paws and settled back down, a satisfied purr escaping from its throat.

----- ----- ------

Harry had barely regained his senses waking up almost an hour later when the sounds of a loud verbal clash met his ears, alerting him to a pressing situation occurring across the hall. Near the Slytherin table stood Professor McGonagall, Professor Horace Slughorn, and Kingsley Shacklebolt all stood arguing around a tall blonde boy, who Harry instantly recognized as Draco Malfoy.

"The boy at least has ties to Death Eaters! You cannot deny that, Minerva!" shouted an irate Shacklebolt, his face red either from the shouting match, or his growing frustration.

"The boy was inside during the attack on Hogwarts. Children are not always doomed to repeat the mistakes of their parents!" argued an equally red McGonagall, who was staring down Shacklebolt in a contest of sheer will.

Harry couldn't argue with that point, and although he had no desire to ever see Malfoy again, Harry didn't really think that Malfoy deserved to be sentenced to Azkaban. The one big mission Draco had been given from Voldemort was one that he thought better of, Harry knew. Of course, he had been the one to vocally vent about Draco's mission to kill Dumbledore to the Order, so Shacklebolt's next argument hardly surprised him.

"You know as well as I do what he was doing in Dumbledore's office the night he died, Minerva!"

At this, Slughorn stepped in front of McGonagall, as if shielding her from the verbal assault of Shacklebolt. "But he didn't do it, now did he? I think we can agree that Snape was the one behind that," Slughorn argued, "so why don't we put this behind us? Come, my good man, let us grab a shot of firewhisky."

Shacklebolt wasn't listening, however, and his voice only grew louder. "Whether or not he actually killed Dumbledore isn't the problem. It's the intention! Conspiracy to murder is against the law as well! And we all know who sent him on the mission. Just let us––"

"No," Harry stated from across the room. Ginny's delicate sleeping body prevented him from rising and joining the confrontation, but he had to step in; as much as he hated the fact that he was defending Malfoy, he owed Snape at least this. "Dumbledore was dying anyway," Harry began, every conscious head in the room swiveling to meet his, shocked expressions on each of their faces. "Snape left me his memories to use in Dumbledore's Pensieve. Dumbledore had been poisoned, and it was incurable. On his orders, Snape took the duty of killing Dumbledore out of Malfoy's hands so he wouldn't go to Azkaban. A–And Professor McGonagall's right, he was inside during the battle," Harry grimaced, despising the fact that he could not mention the events with Malfoy and the tiara, "Just let him go."

The room instantly quieted, unsure whether Harry had actually said the words. Scattered disbelief was evident in most eyes – Snape was working for Voldemort, it was common knowledge. The tension could have been cut with a knife. Draco's mouth could not have fallen open any wider if an Engorgement Charm had been cast on it.

"You mean to say, Harry," humored Mr. Weasley almost in jest from across the table, "that Snape was actually on the Order's side all this time?"

"Yes," Harry responded bluntly, causing the scattered members of the Order of the Phoenix to scowl. "If you want proof, it's upstairs––the Pensieve, I mean. You can see for yourselves."

Shacklebolt clearly looked put off, but finally decided that he was outnumbered. "Alright, the boy goes free." At the words, Draco shot out of the hall as fast as his legs would take him, swiveling his head, not taking his surprised stare off Harry.

A soft waking groan sounded from Harry's shoulder as Ginny stirred. "Mmmm…what's going on, Harry?" she asked groggily.

"Nothing," Harry said, gently stroking Ginny's brilliant red hair, "just go back to sleep." He bent his head and kissed her forehead. Ginny responded by burying her head into Harry's chest and hugging him even closer to her.

Harry could have positively sworn that he had heard the beast in his chest mew.

----- ----- ------

Draco woke the next morning on his bed at Malfoy Manor and immediately began packing. He couldn't stand staying in this house for a second longer. All his family members were either dead or incarcerated, and their cash assets, like all the other Death Eaters' had been frozen, all of which effectively prevented him from staying in England by his insular train of thought.

He simply needed to get out of England because he couldn't stand the thought of Harry Potter.

It had been bad enough that Potter had shown him up, managed to destroy the tiara in the secret room, and then escaped from the fiendfyre. No, Potter had to be the consummate Gryffindor and play hero, saving both Draco and Goyle. Still, that wasn't even the worst of it. Potter hadn't just saved him once that night; he had saved him twice! He had then prevented Draco from Kingsley's wrath and the horrors of Azkaban.

Malfoy couldn't stand it. He owed Potter his life, twice-over! It was preposterous, but it was true. There wasn't one person he could think of that he'd less prefer to owe that debt to.

The articles in the papers that day certainly hadn't helped things, either. Draco cast his copy of The Daily Prophet a look of utter abhorrence as an obviously embarrassed Potter tried to keep climbing out of the photo.

* * *

**Potter Chosen One; You-Know-Who Vanquished  
**By: Rita Skeeter

Last night, the great evil that had been the Dark Lord came to an end as Harry Potter, 17, otherwise known as "The Chosen One" and "The Boy Who Saved the World" defeated You-Know Who in what will surely go onto be known as one of the most famous duels of all time, perhaps overshadowing the duel between Gellert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore.

Of course, I, Rita Skeeter, have been in close correspondence with the Potter boy since I met him as a wee lad. Always standing by him, I have gotten in his best graces. We have the tightest of bonds, and I have gotten the full story exclusively from him.

(More on Page 2)

* * *

Just gazing at it sent fits of jealous rage rippling through Draco, and before he really had a chance to think about it, he slammed down the case of his trunk, grabbed his wand, and shouted "_Incendio,_" at the newspaper, causing it to burst into flames. He grabbed his trunk and calmly strolled out the door, leaving Malfoy Manor to burn behind him. 

One day, Draco would pay Harry back for his debts, he swore. Surely Draco would inevitably pay Potter back for ruining his life.

-------------------------------------------

_A/N - A HUGE thanks goes out to my crack team of Betas - Spenser, my comic relief and ideas crutch, KD - my great Britpicker who also happens to be a great overall beta and Sigrid, the grammar nut who followed me from my previous fandom to the place where my fanfiction heart truly lies. Words on a paper (or screen) can never express my gratitude to any of you. This story would be nothing without you three._


	2. Chapter One: The Tables Turned

**Chapter One: The Tables Turned**

The Prime Minister of England paced to and fro in his office, refusing to stay still. He still did not know if he really believed it; perhaps he really _should_ have sought the psychological help he had considered after he had first been visited by the Minister of Magic. There was, of course, no such thing as magic, and pictures could not conceivably talk.

Still, the picture of the crier, a frog-like man with a white wig, had announced the imminent arrival of the Minister of Magic. The Prime Minister both dreaded and hoped for the encounter. If it was bad news, he really did not want to hear it, but if it was good news-well, good news was badly needed these days. Over the last two years, the minister's approval ratings had fallen to the point that he was the most reviled Prime Minister in England's history. If things did not turn around quickly, Oliver Cromwell would soon be a footnote in history to this horrendous cabinet.

Things had started off badly enough, with just enough seemingly natural disasters to make people wonder why Mother Nature hated them so much. Tornadoes and hurricanes ravaged the land, and a flood broke through dams in Amsterdam, causing massive flooding. Of course, the dam breaking had been the Prime Minister's fault; apparently the large sum of British Pounds he was spending on the maintenance was not enough.

Then came the murders. The official tally stood at one hundred and thirty-seven people, many mass-murdered in gruesome ritualistic fashions. Predictably, the Prime Minister had also been made a scapegoat for this. He obviously was not spending enough on the police department, either, as his detractors were all too eager to imply.

It was enough to make the Prime Minister consider retiring, or resigning, or just doing something to get away from it all.

Still, if the Prime Minister was not crazy, he knew that none of this was his fault. Periodically, (and much to the Prime Minister's chagrin) the portrait of the court crier in his office would announce the appearance of the Minister of Magic. The Other Minister, as the Prime Minister liked to think of him, would inexplicably enter through the Prime Minister's fireplace and proceed to explain that all the horrendous events had actually been the work of some evil wizard who was threatening England. Even knowing that he had nothing to do with the strange events, the news always had the strange effect of winding his nerves even tighter.

A puff of smoke issued from the fireplace and the figure of a man appeared, apparently flu-ing in, or whatever they called it.

_Oh, please let this be good news, please let this be good news. I can't take any more bad news._

Out of the fireplace stepped a tall, distinguished-looking black man. His head was gloriously bald, whether from shaving or lack of hair was unclear. His spirits lifting a bit as he recognized the man, the Prime Minister extended a hand. "Shacklebolt! How nice to see you again!"

"All my pleasure, Blair," replied Kingsley Shacklebolt as he took the Prime Minister's hand and shook, his grip extremely strong.

"So, where's the Minister? It was announced that he'd be making an appearance tonight," the Prime Minister looked around warily before adding, "with good news, I hope."

"Well, I'm here."

"Are you?" asked the Prime Minister, a genuine smile lighting up his face. The title could not go to a better man in his opinion. "Congratulations! But, what happened to Scrimgeour?"

"Scrimgeour's dead. Has been for a few months now."

"Oh," said the Prime Minister, pausing. He had never really liked the man, but he had never wanted to see him dead; Scrimgeour's death was certainly sobering. "So, what news do you bring?" The Prime Minister's smile melted into a discerning scowl as he got down to business.

"Voldemort's dead, defeated by a wizard of seventeen. England should be safe, at least for the time being."

The Prime Minister's smile returned, relief overtaking him. "You mean that Harry Potter kid actually killed him?" Shacklebolt nodded, a proud expression upon his face. "That's-that's great news!"

"One more thing - the quadrennial World Cup of Quidditch is to be held this year. It is-" Kingsley began before the Prime Minister cut in, interrupting him mid-sentence.

"The World Cup of Kweedditch? What's that?" The Prime Minister put a hand to his chin, scratching the rough five o'clock shadow that had been growing even faster than normal due to all the stress in the last few weeks.

"Well, you know...it's a tournament of Quidditch-you know what that is, correct?" Kingsley paused, as the Prime Minister nodded his head . "It's much like your World Cup of Footyball-"

"-Football," interjected the Prime Minister, correcting Shacklebolt's blatant error.

If Shacklebolt heard him, he paid him no mind as he kept his train of speech, "-Held every four years, it matches the best from every country in matches of Quidditch."

"Oh, very well."

"As I was saying, we are honored to be holding this year's tournament in England for the second straight World Cup, eastern Yorkshire, to be specific. It seems the committee decided at the last minute that we deserved it, what with the war having just ended and all. We are casting Muggle-Repellent Charms all over the area, so there should be no possibility of one of your people finding out about our world, but still, if you can, I'd greatly appreciate it if you can try to steer them away from the woods."

The Prime Minister reached up and streaked a hand through the hair on the back of his head, grabbing on to a tuft of hair in slight frustration from this latest challenge. "All right, I'll try."

"Good, now I really must get going. Voldemort may be dead, but there's still a lot to clean up. Take care; I hope, for both of our sakes, that we will not have a reason to see much of each other for a long time."

"Take care," the Prime Minister called after Shacklebolt as the Other Minister climbed into the fireplace, cast strangely colored dust on the floor, said a few words, and vanished with a puff of smoke. He'd never get used to that form of transportation.

The Prime Minister walked over to his liquor cabinet in the corner of his office. Retrieving a nice Bordeaux 1979 and a wine glass, he retreated to his desk. Talk of a dark lord, the seventeen-year-old savior of the Wizarding World, and some game called Kwidditch; if he had not experienced it first-hand, he would have sworn he was loony.

He poured himself a glass of the Bordeaux, and, taking a sip, sat back in his chair. His gaze wandered over to the still and quiet portrait of the froggish man, and then to the fireplace which bore no evidence that anyone had just traveled through it. The Prime Minister let out a lonely, depressed sigh. Maybe he really should seek the psychiatric help he had thought about two years ago.

----- ----- ------

Three men stood on the doorstep outside a Victorian-style house that was decrepit in appearance. The tiling on the top of the house was starting to peel up from the roof—the rain drain no longer worked, causing water damage to the house where the water would pool, trying to escape through the clogged drain. All in all, the house's appearance clearly belied the fact that it, like the development where it was situated, was only five years old.

What the house's appearance did not show was what made it different from every other house on the block. Each house, more than likely through the intentional mechanisms of some spiteful architect whose wife had left him and whose most famous building had been found with a beam in the wrong place and then promptly crumbled, looked exactly the same. Each had the same off-white, Victorian-era look to it; each house had the same exact flaws, with the rain damage and the tiling and the paint peeling. It was really quite startling.

No, what separated this house from every other house in the nearby vicinity was not its outward appearance, it was the house's inhabitants.

The three men stood by the house's door, opaque bags that kept their contents secret hanging in their hands by their sides. One of the men, a blond with spiked hair that clearly stated 'I didn't make the effort to do my hair today–in fact I probably haven't had a bath…but I know you think I'm sexy,' stepped forward and rung the doorbell. A few seconds passed nervously between them, each glancing out to make sure that the elderly woman strolling across the vacant street paid them no heed.

Finally the door opened slightly as a pair of blue eyes peered out of the crack. The door flew open, and there stood a medieval knight, silver armor shining in the light of the streetlamps outside.

The old woman stopped in her tracks and cast an appraising gaze at the house, staring for a few minutes before shaking her head and continuing her walk, muttering about the declining moral values of the younger generation.

"Come in, guys. The dungeon is ready, and battle's about to begin!" exclaimed the knight energetically. He extended a hand, motioning for the others to follow him as he made the trek through the lushly carpeted house, down the stairs, and into the damp, dark basement.

Down in the basement, the air was suffocating – it was like bread bought a week prior to this engagement and allowed to grow moldy. The smell of mildew and decay hung in the stale air.

Three tables stood in the middle of the room. On one sat three hardback books, each with gaudy, ornate covers. On another table lay a white sheet of laminated paper, about three feet on each side. The piece of paper contained a multitude of black lines, which formed a sort of checkers or chess board. On the other lay four sheets of paper, with various scribbles and pen-marks on them.

Without a word between them, the three men who had been standing on the knight's porch reached into their bags, pulling out various pieces of strange clothing and quickly donning them.

One of the men changed into a long, star-speckled robe before extracting a long blue pointed hat and a long stick from his bag. The second man strapped on a plastic breastplate, then grabbed a plastic sword from his bag. The last man pulled off his shirt, replacing it with a ragged, torn brown piece of fabric which was not fit to be called a shirt. He reached into his bag and drew out a pair of brown leather gloves with the fingers cut out, which he quickly fit his hands into.

In less than a minute these three seemingly ordinary men had transformed themselves into a wizard, a warrior and a thief, respectively.

"All right, Jayce, we're ready!" called the warrior.

The knight, Jason, grabbed one of the pieces of paper from the third table as he sat down at the head of the table containing the checkered board. He removed his helm, revealing a face that was clean shaven, with blue eyes, brown hair cut in a bowler fashion, and a face suffering from a slight acne problem.

"Cool. Okay, then, it's time. It's DnD time!"

"Dungeons and Dragons!" shouted the other three, as they sprinted to grab their papers and leaped to their seats at the table already occupied by Jason. Jason reached over to the table with the books and grabbed a rectangular leather box. Staring at it worshipfully, he flipped the lid, revealing a set of variously shaped die.

"For memories sake, why doesn't everyone state their names, info and background?" Jason suggested. "Steve, why don't you start out?"

The wizard, a man in his mid-twenties like the rest, stood from his chair. He possessed dirty blonde hair that he had let grow out; it now hung in slight wisps, crowning his head. "Well, my name is Haydn Grindleson. I'm a level twenty mage. I had a rough childhood; both my parents were killed when a renegade wizard and his minions ransacked the village of Solace. For five years, I lived in the wild, gathering food to survive before my father's brother and his search and rescue team finally found me.

"He was in the Brethrenhood, a secret society of powerful white wizards, and he trained me in their ways. When I was old enough, he trained me to undertake The Tribulation, the test where one becomes an official magus, and I passed it with flying colors during my first time taking it. Shortly afterwards I met the other guys here and we embarked upon our quest."

"Your turn, Rich," Steve said as he sat down, and Rich, the man dressed as a knight, stood up.

"I'm Kraith Hamek, a level nineteen Paladin. I was born to the brave knight Callogan Hamek and the fair Lady Genevive. Raised in the royal court life, I served as squire for my father until I began my training for knighthood. After three years of training, I went out with a hunting party, seeking to vanquish the Green Dragon that had been terrorizing the kingdom. The fight was long and brutal, but in the end, I was the one to deal the final blow, thereby gaining my knighthood. My quest for the Holy Grail united me with the two of you. Your turn, Carl."

A portly, but not necessarily fat, man stood up, the thief. In any other situation, it would have seemed odd for a larger man to be a thief; however this was Dungeons and Dragons, and nothing is odd in Dungeons and Dragons.

"My name is Hunter Trillingsley, and I'm a level twenty thief. Um…I like to steal things, always have," he finished, a sarcastic bite in his voice. "Now let's get on with the game."

"Fine, don't have to be so snappy," shot Jason, the dungeon master. "Now, you're all in the swamps of–"

A shrilling scream of terror shrieked outside Jason's house. Its feeling of utter horror sent shivers down the men's spines.

The bloodcurdling noise was soon followed by a wailing sob, a wobbling voice that could only belong to Beatrice, Jason's elderly neighbor. The four friends abandoned their game for the time being and rushed over to see what the problem was.

Once they had reached the grass outside the house and were closing the distance between them and the hunched-over old lady, they began to hear the inane babbling that had replaced the sobs.

"Reginald–you've come-you've come back to me. I always knew you would, but–please–please stop banging on my walls! It sounds like your claws are scratching my walls–oh, Reginald," rambled the woman.

"Mrs. Treanor, what's the problem?" asked Jason, as the four men finally came within speaking distance of the woman.

"It's, it's my Reg." Sadness and loneliness welled in her eyes, manifesting itself in tiny droplets of water that began to flow down her cheeks. "I can hear him. He's dead, but I can hear him. I think he's one of those polting. No that's not it, polterghosts. No, that's wrong too, plotergasts. No, not that, either pol–"

"Poltergeist?" Carl offered skeptically. Mrs. Treanor nodded her head. "Ma'am, no offense, but there are no such things as ghosts."

"Yes there are, he's come back by magic–"

"Ma'am, there is no such thing as magic, either."

"Yes, well, then, explain the scratching in my walls, the noises in the night."

"Ma'am, it's probably just squirrels," stated Carl, whose face furrowed as he began to get quite annoyed by this line of conversation. "Do you have a hole in the side of your house anywhere?"

"No," replied the old lady in a huff, as she turned away. "If it's not Reginald, then how does he know to scratch the area in the wall above where he used to lie in bed?"

"And just what is the old ghost using to scratch on your walls?"

"His claws, of course."

Carl burst out laughing in a fit of skepticism. "You have to be kidding me! His _claws_? Lady – men don't have claws."

"Not while they're living, but ghosts do!" Mrs. Treanor shouted, her face wrinkling and her brows angling themselves as she grew infuriated.

"Ma'am, even if ghosts were real, they couldn't scratch–"

"That's enough, Carl," interrupted Steve, bringing Carl back to the realization that there were three men standing around with wide eyes, just having witnessed him blow up at this elderly woman. "Mrs. Treanor, would you like us to check this out for you. Make sure that if your husband is really a ghost that he moves on?"

"Y–yes. I'd like that," responded the old lady gratefully.

"All right. Come on guys, we've got a ghost to hunt!" Jason called excitedly, motioning with a flick of his wrist for the others to follow him to Mrs. Treanor's house.

"Ghost my ass," muttered Carl as he belligerently followed, mumbling various unmentionable words under his breath as he went.

----- ----- ------

Draco Malfoy was a mess.

His life was in shambles. His manor, his family, his reputation, they were all shattered remnants of the life he once had. They were reminders of the life he had inherited – the life that had cost him everything. His parents were in Azkaban and, knowing the current public outcry against the Death Eaters, they wouldn't be released anytime soon. His house was merely ashes now, as far as Draco knew. Burning it down had been a brash and incomprehensible move in hindsight. At the very least, it certainly would have earned quite a lot of money if put up for auction. Indeed, it was a miscalculated move, but it wasn't Draco's fault. It was Harry Potter's.

If it wasn't for Harry, Draco knew he would be dead or in Azkaban, but that could not remove the shame it caused him. Twice in the same night he had let his sworn rival save his life. Wasn't it nobler to die for the cause? To die for Voldemort? That was what Draco had been told from the day of his birth. Draco had entertained second thoughts many times, and he was never quite certain if he truly agreed with all of Voldemort's doctrines, but the idea of serving his Dark Lord had been drilled into Draco's mind for as long as he could remember.

Still, Harry Potter had been the one to cause all this, to put his parents behind prison bars, to defeat Voldemort, and now he was the one who was treated like a hero. The mere thought brought Draco's blood to a boil.

Perhaps the word "mess" was an understatement. Draco Malfoy's life was a wreck.

Draco continued his mental venting as he walked calmly down the dark street. Trees and brush shadowed by the night heavily lined both sides of the road, making nothing other than the road and the vegetation visible. It was midnight and, in order to blend into the night, Draco wore a black cloak that he had saved from the manor. He cast a glance at his suitcase. It was the only reminder of the time when he, Draco Malfoy, had been on top of the world.

Suddenly snapping him out of his thoughts, Draco saw the tiniest bit of movement in the bushes about ten feet to his right. Sensing danger, he immediately turned towards the movement, wand drawn.

"_Lumos!_" shouted Draco. His wand merely sputtered. _Bloody cheap replacement wand. _

"_CRUCIO!"_ rang a voice from the bushes.

Draco's entire body burst out in pain. The agony was unbearable, like knives piercing and tearing away entire chunks of flesh repeatedly. For the first time in his life, Draco experienced the sheer and utter torture of the Cruciatus. Still, he wouldn't scream, he resolved. No, he wouldn't scream. No…he wouldn't.

A loud bestial cry erupted from Draco's stomach as the pain overtook him. Tears ran their rivulets down Draco's cheek, leaving a wetness that he had not felt in years.

It was the Death Eaters, it had to be. The ones who escaped had been hunting down the others, vowing to take any step necessary to keep their identities secret. Anyone who could turn the Death Eaters in, anyone who knew their true identities were in danger.

A bitter, mocking laugh rang in the air as Draco's tormentors came into view. Although Draco's vision was blurry with pain and tears, he could still make out the general features of the man and his two companions. The man stood about six feet high with brown hair. His nose was crooked, and his eyes were drawn back and distant. He may have been handsome once, but he was unkempt and surely could not be termed handsome now. The two children at his feet bore striking resemblances to the man, one of the children wearing the same look of hatred as the man.

These weren't any Death Eaters that Draco knew of.

"Daddy, just kill 'im!" cried one of the children, a girl at the man's left.

"No. He needs to suffer," the man said callously, a slow speech pattern belying the weariness evident in his voice. "He needs to pay for what they did."

"But Daddy, those Death Eaters weren't him, let him go!" argued the other child, an older boy who Draco really found himself liking at the moment.

The pain tore at Draco, ripping him apart from the inside. Still, he needed to know who his attackers were; the only thing he was sure of was that they weren't Death Eaters.

"No, they weren't," he responded to his son. Then he turned his attention to Draco. "_Boy,_" he spat, "you're Lucius Malfoy's, aren't you?" He lowered his wand, ending the spell and sending Draco crumpling to the ground.

Draco weighed his options, quickly deciding that he couldn't afford to alter the truth. "Y-yes," Draco responded feebly, using up much of his energy in the simple response.

"Do you know what the Death Eaters have done?" Draco remained silent. He knew they had done evil, but now wasn't the time to open his mouth, if he even could. "About two month ago, the Dark Mark appeared in the air over my village. I tried to hide my family, but they broke in…they murdered her. They took the Muggle-borns and they killed them all! They killed her! My Marissa!" Anger mixed with anguish took over the man, who raised his wand once more. Draco cringed, fully expecting another dose of the Cruciatus.

"But you, you're not even a real Death Eater, are you, boy? Real Death Eaters aren't cowards like you; real Death Eaters are animals. How many have you killed, boy? How much blood is on your hands?"

For the first time, through the fear, Draco knew what it felt like on the other side. Knew what it felt like to be a victim. For once, he was the one being targeted because of his parentage. For perhaps the first time, he realized just how wrong the ideology of the Death Eaters had been.

This was the other side, though; those opposed to the Death Eaters were made out to be defenders of the light. _How was this light?_ Draco wondered through the waning pain still coursing through his body.

_And yet, history will say that the Death Eaters were the only ones who wronged others, _Draco thought as a boot came down on his stomach as the man took Draco's wand from his limp hand, snapped it in two and walked away with his two children, leaving Draco to rot.

----- ----- ------

"Harry, you're back! How did it go?" asked an excited Ronald Weasley, before Harry even had a chance to step through the door to the Burrow.

"Give Arthur and Harry a chance to enter before bombarding poor Harry!" admonished Mrs. Weasley from across the kitchen, turning from the food she was preparing.

Harry smiled as Ron backed away from the door. He raised his hand, in which he held a rectangular piece of plastic - his Apparition license. As his favorite Weasley walked into the room, noticed the license and gazed up at him proudly, Harry's grin only grew wider.

"Oh, I knew you would do it, Harry," Ginny told him, a smile lighting up her face and magnifying her beauty "I told you, you were worrying over nothing!"

"Still, it feels good to have it," Harry said, walking over to Ginny, taking her hand and walking out of the room as a proud Mr. and Mrs. Weasley looked on. "So, how was your day?"

"Boring. All I did around here was clean. Clean this! Clean that! Is that all Mum thinks about? She's been doing this since that night," Ginny sighed, "I know she misses him. I do too, but cleaning isn't going to bring him back."

"Neither will George's spending all day at the joke shop," Harry agreed as they entered Ginny's bedroom and sat down on her bed. The familiar settings surrounded Harry, the bright room, the posters plastered on the walls, and everything else that made Ginny unique. Behind them hung a poster of Gwenog Jones, the star of the Holyhead Harpies.

Harry turned his head to his right, looking directly into Ginny's eyes, sending her an unspoken message. She didn't have to suffer in silence like her mother or her brother. If she needed anything, he was there for her, and Harry needed her to know that.

Harry felt the bed shift a bit as Ginny adjusted her body, sliding her small, slender hand into Harry's and giving it a soft squeeze. Gazing at Harry, she shot him a smile. "Check out the newspaper!" Ginny said excitedly, reaching behind her and lifting the latest edition of The Daily Prophet from her bed.

Ginny unfolded the paper and pointed to an article below and to the left of the title of the main article – _Fifty Years Later, Unsolved Muggle Murders Still Not Forgotten_. It was an article written by the famed Quidditch reporter David Voller, entitled _Veeck Williams – Perfect Choice or Embarrassment in Waiting? _Harry read on.

* * *

_Today, the England National Quidditch Board (NQB) made the endlessly-speculated rumor official. Veeck Williams is officially England's coaching representative in this year's World Cup of Quidditch. As the manager of Team England, Williams will be expected to maintain the respectability of the nation, while performing both in a professional manner and with a high quality of results. I guess one out of three isn't shabby in the twenty minds that comprise the NQB. _

_To the manager of the Falmouth Falcon's credit, no one can argue that the man is a genius in Quidditch tactics. Falmouth's four League Cups in the last ten years, not to mention the two championship losses to the Holyhead Harpies and Puddlemere United in the same time span, should speak for itself. From a pure Quidditch angle, it's nearly impossible to argue with the naming of Williams, especially considering why England lost in the last World Cup._

_Williams brings a more physical style of play to the England national team than they have had previously. Team England's downfall in the last Quidditch World Cup has been chiefly attributed to the lax play of their Beaters. That is sure to change this year. The famous brother tandem of ex-Falcon Beaters Kevin and Karl Broadmoor, assistant coaches of William's Falcons, are sure to be approached by Williams to train England's group of Beaters. The brothers are most known for their brutal play and pinpoint Bludger accuracy, which they have successfully taught to the current Falcons' Beaters, one of whom, Brutus Edwards, has already been named to Team England. One can almost be assured that the Falcons' motto, "Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads," will be drilled into the heads of the players on Team England._

_Despite all of the positives that England stands to gain from the appointment of Williams, the negatives perhaps overshadow those gains. Williams, frequently pegged as a showboat manager, has never been one for subtlety. Despite the meek and unassuming persona he displays to the press, he has been known to, on occasion, enter into shouting matches with as they attempt to leave the stadium, usually disputing a call. Still, the tenacity of Williams is not the ultimate downfall of this great manager._

_Williams' criticizers have continually pointed to the sometimes-embarrassing antics and publicity stunts that the Falcons manager has pulled in the past. The myriad of exploitations this man has executed in the past are sure to continue to haunt him, regardless of his team's actions in the World Cup._

_While tactically sound, one cannot deny that Williams surely has his demons. In the past few years, he has not executed one of his stunts, but the question must be raised - was that merely to land the national team job? In the big picture, will Williams represent England in a professional manner? Ultimately, however, if Williams does indeed bring the Cup to England, all will be forgiven, undoubtedly. In the meantime, countless discussions and controversy will continue to surround this announcement._

* * *

"So," Harry began, drawing the word out, "what has Williams done that's so bad, it doesn't say?" He smiled, knowing full well what Ginny wanted him to absorb from the article.

Harry's smile was returned by a soft punch in the arm, "No, it's about the World Cup, Harry! That's this summer!"

"When is it?"

"Next month. We've already got the tickets, but I don't think Mum and Dad are going. Dad says Mum isn't in any position to go – too many memories from the last time. So it'll just be you, me, Ron and Hermione."

"Sounds like fun," Harry responded, smiling. He placed a hand on her leg and looked deeply into her eyes. In the last year, he had realized how much he needed her presence in his life. The last few weeks since the showdown with Voldemort had been especially taxing with him. His burden lifted, there was no place he'd rather have been than with her, and yet the world seemed to conspire to keep them separated for as long as possible. Barraged with media interviews and Ministry reports that needed filing, among other things, Harry had barely had time to leave Grimmauld Place for an hour or two to visit the Burrow.

Now that was all over and he and Ginny could finally focus on themselves; they could finally focus on their relationship. Since Voldemort, they had been taking it slow; mostly just hand holding and other similar shows of affection. Harry wanted more, but he knew that he couldn't just reenter her life and expect it to be the same as he left it. He was willing to rebuild everything they had, and he had been willing to wait the couple weeks to get the relationship to where it was now, on the verge of what they had had in the past.

"Dinner's ready!" Mrs. Weasley called from the kitchen. Harry and Ginny quickly made their way to the table, where Ron, Hermione and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were already seated. A simple glance at the clock confirmed Harry's thoughts on George's whereabouts, his hand still pointing to 'At Work.'

As it had been since Fred's death, the dinner was fairly silent. Each time one member of the family would attempt to speak, they'd end up closing their mouth before ever really saying anything. The loss of Fred was causing them much more strain than any of them would really care to admit.

Harry looked at Hermione, sharing a look of sympathetic concern for the family. Hermione had recently been spending much time at the Weasleys', even with her family back in England, their memories returned. Harry supposed he always knew that it would come to this. Ron and Hermione had always just seemed destined for each other.

Finishing his dessert of treacle tart, Harry excused himself from the tense silence and exited the house, lying down on the grass outside the burrow and staring up at the stars. It was a particularly balmy night, not necessarily hot, but humid. The air felt stuffy, and the smell from the dinner wafted faintly through the air.

Looking up at the heavens and emptying his mind, Harry lost track of the time until he felt a body next to him join him, lying down on the soggy grass, still wet from the night's earlier rainfall.

"What are you doing?" Ginny asked, reaching out for Harry's hand as she did so.

"I was never fond of Astronomy, but before he died, Lupin told me something. You see that star?" Harry asked, pointing a finger to the Northeast. "The brightest in the sky?"

"Yes, I see it," Ginny responded after searching for a moment.

"Lupin told me that the star is called Sirius, the Dog Star. It was in existence for millennia, but that doesn't mean that Sirius isn't there, looking down on us. Whenever I get lonely or I miss him, I'll go outside and just stare at that star. While it will never bring him back, at least it's something I can use to remember him."

"Harry," Ginny sighed, turning her head to look directly into his eyes. Harry tried his hardest to let her see through his eyes, to allow her to peer all the way to his soul. Slowly, they both leaned in towards each other, closing the gap between their bodies. Their lips met for the first time since the wedding, and their hands instinctively went to each other's backs.

It was a kiss unlike Harry had ever had, full of their passion for each other, full of the hurt the year apart had caused both of them, and full of the promise that they would be together from now onward. Reluctantly, Harry broke the kiss, keeping a hand on Ginny's back while stroking her hair with the other. "I love you, Ginny Weasley."

A content smile slowly curled its way onto Ginny's face. "I love you too, Harry Potter." She shifted her body, crawling into Harry's lap, where he placed his arms around her stomach. "Promise me you'll never leave me again."

"I won't, Ginny," Harry pledged, savoring the feel of the soft body in his arms. Relaxing, the two soon fell asleep, entwined with one another under the watchful eye of Sirius.


	3. Chapter Two: Rodent Problems

**Chapter Two: Rodent Problems**

_A/N: Once again, tons of thanks to my pre-beta, The Plaid Slytherin, and my beta Jules. Whenever my brain refuses to work, they always tend to let me borrow theirs. Check out PS's work on and Jules' here at PhoenixSong - they're both tremendously talented writers, and I feel honored to call them friends and betas._

_Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, or form, own these characters. That honor belongs to the one and only J.K. Rowling. This is simply my excursion into her magnificent world. No profit is made from this, nor is any copyright infringement intended._

_Actually, see where I said that I don't own these characters? That's not the total truth - you see the Muggles? They're ALL mine evil grin_

Four extremely odd men stepped out into the morning sun. They had recently done a lot of running and had nearly reached Jason's neighbor's house before realizing they didn't have the proper equipment for the job. Having traded in their Dungeons and Dragons garb for varied ghost-hunting equipment, the four men made their way to the seemingly haunted house that belonged to Mrs. Treanor.

Jason, who had formerly been dressed as a knight, now was in some kind of futuristic outfit, which had actually been quite popular in the 1980s. It was a dazzling silver tracksuit, and if the glare was any indication, Jason must have been cooked to, at the very least, medium-rare at this point. He had pointed out to the other members of his Dungeons club that ghosts were afraid of light, and that if he wore this suit, with the light it emitted, the ghost was a sure goner.

Steve, on the other hand, was in no special outfit, instead opting for a casual button-down black shirt and jeans. When asked about his clothes, he responded with the following: "Well, if I'm going to be chasing down ghosts, might as well look good doing it."

Rich must have been a diehard fan of Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd, Carl had deduced. There was no way any grown man would be wearing a Cosplay Ghostbusters outfit otherwise. Instead of the prop proton pack, Carl had a modified vacuum on his back. He wasn't going to capture the ghost with a nuclear accelerator - no, Rich was going to suck the thing right into the vacuum.

Carl had to have the oddest costume for hunting this ghost. Dressed in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, he had packed a homemade makeshift biohazard suit made out of various plastics and material. When asked about it, Carl flatly responded that to get to the offending rodent, they might have to somehow get through the wall to retrieve it, and he was not going to risk exposure to asbestos.

"So, ready to do this?" asked Jason, with a mixture of anticipation, excitement and a dash of dread.

"Yeah, let's hunt some ghosts!" responded a fervent Rich.

"Yeah, ghosts, whatever. Let's just get this over with," muttered Carl, much less enthused than any of the others.

The four men threaded their way through the old woman's yard, through grass so high it must not have been cut since the ghost of the woman's husband had been a walking, breathing man. Carl had to shield his eyes from the glare emanating from Jason's suit. Once they reached the house, they opened the door and were hit with a stuffy malodorous smell. It was sickeningly sweet; one which Carl figured had to have come from an overabundance of perfume. Or, as he realized, as he examined the room, it could have come from the multitude of mismatched plug-in air fresheners. Such a mixture he had never seen before.

The house itself seemed meticulously spotless. Sparkling stained wood floorboards and furniture stared menacingly at the four men, more prone towards downright messiness than the cleanliness they were witnessing. The room was painted a light pink, and there were no smudges anywhere. There was no evidence that anyone actually lived here. _Actually, scratch that, _Carl thought, _the sterile condition of this room was the best evidence that someone actually lived here, no matter how obsessive-compulsive it seemed._

One of the tables in the room was covered with photos over every square inch. Walking over to it, Carl noticed that they were all photographs of a younger version of Mrs. Treanor with the same man. He must have been her husband, he realized. He felt sadness tug at his heart as he reached toward the photos. He knew how it was to lose someone; his father had died the year before. Even so, he couldn't imagine how it felt to lose the love of your life. Maybe that was the reason for the obsession with the cleanliness of the room.

Just as he was about to touch the photo, Rich grabbed his hand and prevented him from actually touching the picture.

"Don't touch that. We don't know what was contaminated," he warned.

Carl noticed a strange device in Rich's hand. "What's that?"

Rich scoffed, spitting a bit. "This," he said arrogantly, as if everyone knew what it really was, "is an Ectoplasm Sensor. It will tell us what is contaminated."

"Really?" Jason asked in wonderment, coming over to Rich to gaze longingly at the device. "That's sweet."

"It looks like a broken compass," Carl said, dismissing the small object.

"It was made out of a compass, but I have it on good authority that it is a genuine Ectoplasm Sensor," Rich responded.

"Really? Huh. Where'd you get it?" Carl questioned.

"I bought it on eBay."

"How much did you pay for it?" asked Carl, skepticism growing larger and larger.

"One hundred and fifteen dollars--a real bargain for something like this."

"Uh-huh," said Carl, straight-faced, not allowing his face to betray his inward snickering.

The group of ghost-hunters cautiously made their way up to the bedroom. Carl was still struck by the cleanliness of every square inch of the house. The carpets were vacuumed, the railings were pristine. The grief of this woman fully hit Carl; no wonder she was a bit eccentric. Her husband must have meant the world to her, and this was her way of coping. He knew he had gone through a rough patch after his father's death, himself. It was something he didn't discuss and no one else really brought it up anymore.

Trying to mentally change topic as they wandered throughout the house, Carl decided to prod Rich a bit more.

"So, how is that compass working out?"

"Ectoplasm Sensor!" Rich nearly shouted. "And it's working out fine, thank you very much."

"Carl, just leave him alone," Steve said, glaring at Carl with an overtly frustrated gaze.

"Aw, all right, Mother," Carl responded, rolling his eyes, "but it's so much fun."

"Knock it off Carl."

"Fine."

The group made their way through the doors on the second floor, looking for the bedroom. They found a clutter-free reading room, a room with a television without a hint of dust, and a room with absolutely nothing in it, just floorboards and a wall, still meticulously cleaned.

Finally, after exhausting the rest of the possible rooms in the house, they came to a door at the end of the upstairs corridor. All four men just looked at it.

"I'm getting some odd reading from the sensor," stated Rich.

"You sure the needle's not just moving because you just switched directions? You know…so that it points North?" Carl asked, receiving a glare from the other three.

"I'm going to open the door very slowly," said Jason, "everyone stand back."

Rich and Steve hung back, looking somewhat scared while Jason, ever the leader, cautiously walked to the door. He hesitated just a second before he meant to touch the doorknob, giving Carl just enough time to bravely grab the knob and turn, stepping into the room to Rich's gasp.

Suddenly Carl let out a bloodcurdling scream and collapsed on the floor.

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Rich as he rushed over to the doorway and just stopped, looking helplessly at Jason. "I want to go check on him, but you saw what happened when he went in there!"

"He'll be okay…I hope," Jason replied, staring at Carl's crumpled body.

Startlingly, the body of Carl rose, his face contorted into an extremely angry expression. "Who dares disturb my slumber?" his body asked in a low, growling voice that didn't seem to belong to Carl.

"Um…we did," answered Rich, his voice soft and meek.

"Who is we?"

"My friends and I did. What are you doing here? What's your name?" asked Jason, his voice cracking just a bit, despite his obvious attempts to remain composed.

"My name?" asked Carl in the same voice, "is…Carl." Carl's voice changed back to his normal tone and timbre as he convulsed in laughter.

"Wow…you got us," said Jason, clearly annoyed at the joke.

"Oh come on!"

"Not cool, Carl. You know we all pretty much believe in this stuff. Preying on Rich like that, just not cool man,"

"What, you can't take a joke?"

Rich just shook his head as the rest of the group walked into the room.

"The sensor isn't reading much of anything right now," Rich said, looking down at his instrument

Carl opened his mouth to say something, but his joke was preempted by Steve's glare.

"So here we are. I don't hear anyth-" Jason was interrupted mid-sentence by an eerie scratching that could be heard through the walls.

"Guys? Wh-what was that?" asked Rich, who was shaking just a bit. He dropped the instrument he was holding, and upon picking it back up, announced to the group, "the Ectoplasm Sensor is going berserk! I've never seen it this active before!"

Three of the men instantly put their guards up, cautiously examining the walls, waiting for a face to push out of the wall or something similar. Only Carl was walking around the room nonchalantly, keeping an ear out for the noise. Stopping at the bed, he put a hand around his ear and bent down.

He dropped down on all fours and lifted up the bedskirt. Smirking, he called to the others, "Hey you three, want to see your ghost?"

Jason, Steve and Rich all gathered around the bed, and once they were down low enough, lifted up the bedskirt to look. What they found astounded them as a squirrel scurried its way into a hole in the wall.

"You know, out of all the places this woman cleans, she manages not to clean under her bed and see this hole. She doesn't need us, she needs an exterminator," Carl stated, rolling his eyes for what must have been the hundredth time that day.

-- -- --

"Aw man, that was simply the bomb," stated Steve, in a futile attempt to act cool. They hadn't caught a ghost by any means, but catching the squirrel had certainly been an adventure. After several attempts to lure the squirrel out with a nut that had ended with the squirrel batting it out of Jason's hand, they had finally caught the blasted creature with a dish of peanut butter and a butterfly net. Once caught, Rich had giddily run outside and released the animal back into the wild.

"Yeah, if your definition of a ghost is a small rodent with large teeth rather than a supernatural ectoplasmic phenomenon," responded Rich glumly, his eyes downcast. Carl had noticed him go into a bit of a snit after finding out that his "ghost" had been a squirrel all along, and, despite Carl's best efforts to cheer him up, Rich had remained that way.

As the men walked on the green grass, inhaling the crisp summer air, Carl's head was abuzz with turmoil.

On one hand, when they reached Mrs. Treanor, she really deserved to know the truth, that what she believed had been the ghost of her dead husband was really no more than a wayward squirrel. But Carl didn't know if he had the heart to put her down in such a manner.

"Rich, can I have your vacuum?" Carl asked as Jason's elderly neighbor came into view, her face brightening as the men approached. His three companions stopped their conversation and looked at him with the same curious expression.

After a brief moment, however, Rich relented. "Sure," he responded curtly, "not like I have any use for it anyway." He unstrapped the vacuum from his back and handed it to Carl.

"Thanks," he said as he grabbed the vacuum, turned it on, turning his back and hiding the vacuum as he stuck the nozzle to the ground, picking up a bag of dirt. He rushed towards Mrs. Treanor.

"Oh, you've caught him, haven't you? My Reginald can finally rest in peace?" asked the elderly woman, a spark in her eye as she remained ever-hopeful.

"Yep, we caught him," Carl lied through his teeth. He removed the bag from the vacuum and handed it to her. "This is what we've got. He wanted us to tell you that he misses you."

"Bless your heart," cried Mrs. Treanor, as the corners of her eyes began to moisten, threatening to unleash tears of joy. She eagerly took the bag and walked off towards her house, whispering sweet nothings to the bag of dirt.

Carl was startled when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Turning his head, he gazed up at Jason, who was taller than him by a good half of a foot.

"What you did for that woman was really sweet," Jason said honestly.

"Yeah," Carl agreed, proud of himself, "I guess it was, wasn't it?"

Jason, Rich and Steve all just nodded at Carl.

"Well, you'd better not get used to it!" Carl laughed.

-- -- --

Draco's body still stung in a painful reminder of the Cruciatus he had undergone almost a week prior. He couldn't even bring himself to stand straight. Every movement he made brought a different ache to a part of his body. Leading what amounted to essentially a homeless life for the past weeks had not helped matters either.

Of course he had made sure to pack whatever money was in the house before his blazing departure, but money had done him little good for shelter. Prejudices ran deep these days. If you were even thought to be related to or an acquaintance of a known Death Eater, most every hotel would turn you down, Draco had found out, much to his chagrin. Even if you had no ties to the Dark Lord, simply being a Slytherin meant that suspicious gazes and blatant discrimination awaited you wherever you went. No one was easily forgiving those who had a part in the war.

It was pouring outside, and, save for the few awnings Draco passed under, he had little protection from the rain. He wished his wand was still intact, that it had not been broken in two by the arrogant git who had dared to use the Cruciatus on Draco.

Draco worked himself into a fury as he scuffled along the damp pavement, doing his best to avoid the puddles of water that formed a sort of obstacle course. Faceless people passed Draco on the street, staring at the hunched-over, soaked Wizard as if he were mad. If only he had the chance to meet up with the man again. Once he bought himself a new wand, Draco would give him a taste of his own medicine. After all, it had only been by luck and the element of surprise that the man had gotten the better of Draco. He was clearly the inferior wizard, Draco knew that much. On a level playing field, he wouldn't stand a chance.

Any progress that had been made in Draco's mind about Muggles and Mud-bloods and the way the Death Eaters had treated them had been forgotten. After all, if they were all to eager to hex and discriminate against Death Eaters, did they really deserve his sympathy? They were no better than he was, and the fact that his blood was untainted made him inherently better than them. _Filthy Mud-bloods and Blood-Traitors, they're all the same._

Draco's stomach growled ferociously, yelling at him out of hunger. Pain emanated from his torso and seemed to shoot in all directions simultaneously. He couldn't recall the last time he had actually had anything to eat. It just hadn't seemed important recently.

Straining his neck to look upwards, he gazed at the lit signs all around him. He marveled crossly about how just that simple motion could cause the top of his back to throb in pain. Giving the environment a cursory glance, he quickly found the sign he was looking for - the one that bore the insignia of a serpent intertwined with a mug. As Draco watched, the snake reared up and flicked its tongue out at him menacingly.

The Snake Pit was a pub that had been a favorite haunt of the Death Eaters stationed in the area. Draco had been there a few times with his father on business, and he was sure the barkeep, Russell, would let him in.

Swinging the door open and stepping inside, Draco was greeted by the distinctive and familiar pungent odor of alcohol. Russell, a diminutive and stout man was tending the front. He looked like he had aged twenty years in the two years since last Draco had seen him. Russell's once-full head of ruddy brown hair had thinned itself out, a bald spot growing ever larger on the top of his head; what hair he had left now was streaked with gray. Wrinkles adorned his face, and Draco could plainly see the weariness the war had set upon the man.

Draco sat down at the bar, noticing a few of the patrons cast disapproving glances his way. The pub quieted to a silence for a brief moment before the deafening indistinct slurred chatter began again.

"Draco!" greeted Russell, a genuine smile lighting his face, allaying some of the weariness. Draco allowed his own face to lift into a smile, something he hadn't been doing a lot of recently. "What can I do for yeh today, lad?"

"Firewhisky would be good," Draco responded. Russell turned his back to pick up a bottle of Ogden's Finest and the refreshing sound of liquid pouring into a glass was like music to Draco's ears. He sat the glass to Draco's left and placed the bottle right beside it.

Russell took the opportunity to give Draco an appraising look, his eyes examining Draco's emaciated features. He reached under the counter and pulled up a platter which he placed in front of Draco.

Ordinarily, the sight of the breaded fish and greasy fried potatoes would have caused Draco to gag. Malfoys did not eat common food, after all. But Draco was starving. At this point, he didn't care what it looked like, he'd take it. He looked up at Russell and gave him a genuine, "Thank you."

"Don't yeh worry about it. That's on the house."

Draco felt a moment of indecisiveness, unsure which to partake of first - the alcohol or the much-needed food. He found his mind leaning more towards the Firewhisky, but his growling stomach won out as he tore into the fish n' chips.

"That's Malfoy's boy?" Draco heard across the bar. He ignored the comment, not that it had been directed at him anyway. The man the voice belonged to was probably drunk, Draco guessed, from the slurred quality of his speech, but Draco didn't care to tear away from the food he had deprived himself of for so long.

"Yeah," slurred another. "What's he doing out here? Shouldn't he be with his fam'ly in Azkaban?"

Draco winced, looking downward at his food. It was taking all the restraint he could muster not to respond. All he had to do was avoid drawing attention to him. If he could only do that, he'd be fine.

"I reckon you're right. Why would they let a git like him loose?" said the first voice.

"Maybe he wasn't a threat. Maybe he was weak and they didn't fear him, I dunno" responded the second. Draco was literally shaking as he continued to eat. He knew they were drunk and speaking louder than they meant, but he didn't know how much more willpower he had left.

"Execute the lot of 'em. That's what they ought to do."

Draco shot his head up, finally losing his cool, and glaring at the faces of his tormentors. One had jet black hair that reminded him of Potter's, with a moustache and a goatee. The other was bald and clean shaven, judging from the muscles his white shirt barely concealed, he was probably someone who knew his way around a fight.

Noticing his gaze, the two cracked into an uproarious laugh. "What's he gonna do, Cale? I'm pissing in my boots now!" Tears streamed from their eyes as they continued their raucous laugh.

Russell walked over to the men, his condemnation of the men's actions obvious. "You two had best leave my pub now. You don't want things getting messy," he gestured over to the well-toned bouncer at the pub's entrance.

"Yeah, harboring Death Eaters then?" asked the bald man, seeming to sober up a bit "We don't want to eat here anyway."

The men stood up from their seats and walked towards the door. The man with the moustache stopped by Draco to mutter, "Tell Mum and Dad we said hello."

Draco couldn't hold his temper anymore, and he clenched his fist, delivering a sharp uppercut to the man's jaw as he rose swiftly from his seat. The man yelled out in pain as an off-white tooth poked its way painfully through his upper lip. A look of unadulterated hatred dawned on the man's face, and he raised a fist to strike Draco. Just as he was about to swing, the man was jerked aside by his companion, who caught Draco off-guard and delivered a devastating punch to Draco's left temple, causing Draco to crumple like a rag.

"Take them out!" Russell yelled to the bouncer. "All of them!" He cast a sympathetic, yet stern look at Draco.

Draco drifted in and out of consciousness, woozy after the blow he had taken. He barely felt anything as the bouncer grabbed him, threw his body over his shoulder and unceremoniously dumped him on the ground.

_I have to get out of this bloody country, _thought Draco, steadying himself and waiting for the world to stop spinning. He had to go somewhere where no one knew who he was or who his parents were, and he needed to do it fast, before he ended up dead.

-- -- --

Harry was in Ron's room at the Burrow. He had slept over the night in anticipation of attending the Quidditch World Cup. As he finished putting the daily necessities in his pack, he went through his mental checklist, making sure that he hadn't forgotten anything.

Ron had finished packing nearly thirty minutes ago, and had left to "go help Hermione finish packing." Harry shuddered at the thought of what they were probably doing. Of course, he approved of their relationship (it had certainly taken long enough for them to get together), but he didn't want to think about their intimate activities.

When he had risen for the day, Ginny was still asleep, and he hadn't seen a trace of her so far. He was sure, though, that Hermione had made sure Ginny had woken. She was probably just scrambling to get ready after sleeping in.

Finally finished, Harry sat down near his pack and let his head droop downward. It really hadn't occurred to him that the World Cup might not be as fun an experience as he had originally thought. The last time the Weasleys had taken him to the sports competition, the festival had been crudely interrupted by hatred and violence. The couple of years that had followed had been the worst of Harry's life, first having to deal with the guilt over Cedric's death and then losing Sirius only a year later. A depressed sigh escaped Harry's lips.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't notice the bed shift with added weight until he felt a slender hand on his shoulder. Turning his head to face the unexpected guest in the room, he forced a smile onto his face as he recognized the pale skin, freckles, and long red hair that belonged to Ginny.

"Knut for your thoughts?" Ginny asked, concern furrowing her brow. She had an uncanny ability to seemingly read Harry's emotions as if he wore them on his sleeve.

"I'm fine," he lied, "there isn't much going on up there right now anyway."

"Harry, you and I both know that's not true. What's bothering you?"

Harry sighed and his shoulders slumped. "I know I should be excited about the World Cup. It's like a first step into a normal life, if that's even possible. But I can't help but thinking about the last time we went."

Ginny's hand gently massaged the muscles in his shoulder. It felt good, and Harry wished they could stay like this forever. "You don't just mean the attack though."

As always, Ginny was unnervingly perceptive; it was an ability that never ceased to amaze Harry. "No. That was the year Voldemort returned, the year my scar began to hurt and the year Cedric died, and the year Sirius…" he trailed off, thinking of the past.

"But that's all over now, Harry. You did it. You defeated him," Ginny reminded him.

"I know, but that doesn't make any of the memories easier, you know?"

Ginny nodded, "I do know. The memories of my first year and the diary still live in my nightmares from time to time. The thing is, we just have to learn to live with our memories, to live without letting them affect us. It's not always easy, but you, of all people, can do it."

Harry nodded, "Thanks, Ginny."

Ginny patted his shoulder and rose from the bed. "I'm going to go see if Ron and Hermione are finished snogging and ready to go," she said, an insidious smirk upon her face. Harry laughed at her expression. "Are you all ready?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

Ginny left the room, and Harry grabbed his things, moving to the Burrow's den. Shortly thereafter, a smirking Ginny arrived, Ron and Hermione in tow, both quite obviously mussed up.

"I'm not even going to ask," Harry stated, chuckling.

"Good, I won't have to lie to you," Ron responded, a mischievous grin lighting up his face.

"Let's get going, shall we?" asked Hermione, extremely eager to change the subject.

"First, we need to make sure we all know where we're going," said Ron. "Remember, it's the Gringotts Arena in Yorkshire."

All four heads nodded. "So, you two go first, and I'll side-along Apparate Ginny," said Harry. Two pops were audible as Ron and Hermione Disapparated.

"Ready?" Harry asked, turning to face the slender girl beside him.

"You bet," Ginny responded excitedly, leaning her head to Harry's, quickly pecking him on the lips. He put an arm around her, and both smiled at the touch. The slightly unpleasant squeezing sensation grabbed hold of Harry once more. In no time at all, Harry and Ginny found themselves standing on a grassy knoll, Hermione and Ron in front of them. Tents and the remnants of now-dormant campfires dotted the hill, too many in number to count. In the distance, the outline of the stadium was clearly visible.

"Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny!" called a pleasantly familiar deep voice behind Harry. Spinning around, Harry's face lifted into a beaming grin as he recognized the interim Minister of Magic and a personal friend, Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Harry walked over to the man, holding out a hand casually. Kingsley looked dismayingly at it, and instead enveloped Harry in a hug Harry didn't certainly didn't expect of the man. "Don't be shy, Harry, you're as good as family now. How are you?" he asked as he moved down the line, hugging each of the other three. Harry chuckled in amusement as they each reflected his own surprise at the hug in their faces. Harry couldn't help but notice how the war being over had lightened Kingsley's mood. He hadn't seen him since that night at Hogwarts, and he only now realized that he had never known the man during a time of peace.

"I'm doing good," Harry responded, and it was the truth. For once in his life, he was beginning to feel a semblance of normalcy. "It's a little odd, but in a good way. How are you doing?"

"Oh, I've been extremely busy," responded Kingsley. "Being the Minister certainly comes with its share of work. I can say, though, that I'm doing a lot better than when Voldemort was still on the loose."

"I noticed," Harry laughed. Ron, Hermione and Ginny all sniggered.

"Come! Let me show you around," Kingsley motioned inside the tent he was standing in front of.

Ducking below the entrance, Harry was amazed upon seeing the interior of the tent. It was fit for a king. Red velvet carpets lined the floor, and ornate furniture was strategically placed in various locations. It looked more like a house than the tent Harry had been in, and it made that tent look like a rickety old sty. Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione dropped their packs off to the right of the tent's opening.

"Wow…how did this get here?" Harry asked, clearly stunned.

"Don't ask," Kingsley said, chuckling. "I told the Ministry I didn't need all this, but they insisted upon it."

Ron had run into the bed chambers, and jumped onto one of the beds like an eager child. "Oy! Try out this bed, Harry! I could sleep for weeks on this thing!" Harry rolled his eyes at his friend's immature antics.

"You should have told me earlier that you wanted to come see the tournament," Kingsley told Harry. "I've had to waste some of my tickets entertaining some rather unpleasant diplomats. I'm sure they wouldn't have minded missing the game if I had to give the tickets to the savior of the wizarding world."

"Williams is sure doing a great job with Team England, huh?" asked Ron from the bedroom.

"Ron, get off the bed, and come in here if you want to talk to Kingsley," Hermione reprimanded sternly. Looking behind him, Harry noticed Ginny stifling a smirk at the comment.

"Spoilsport," Ron complained as he dragged himself back to the entrance of the tent where the group stood.

"He is," Kingsley agreed, nodding his head. "But he'll have his hands tied in the finals tonight against Bulgaria. Viktor Krum and the rest of the team are back with a vengeance after losing to Ireland last time around."

"Oh, great, Bulgaria won," muttered Ron sarcastically, "I just knew Vicky would find his way here."

"Oh, lighten up Ron," retorted Ginny, wearing an impish smirk. "You know it's you Hermione's snogging, not Viktor." Her words had the intended effect on Ron as his face turned a brilliant shade of red.

The conversation continued, with Kingsley recalling some of the most memorable parts of the tournament so far for the four, who were captive listening to the tales of the sports feats. Even Hermione was listening with interest, Harry was surprised to notice.

"And the thing is, the stadium isn't as big as it was the last time. Since it was a last-minute decision to have it here, they had to use an already existing stadium, but-" Kingsley was cut short by the sound of a commotion outside the tent.

In a few moments, a tall, lanky man stumbled into the tent. As he dusted his red suit coat, allowing the others in the tent to get a proper look at him, Ron's mouth hung open and threatened to make its way to the ground. Harry thought he looked rather like he had been hit with a slack-jaw curse. It took Harry a moment to place where he had seen the sharp features of the man. The slightly crooked nose, pointed chin, and brown hair in a Widow's Peak style were strikingly familiar, but it took a while for Harry to piece it together with Ron's reaction and realize who this man was. Standing in front of them was Veeck Williams, the man from the article Ginny had showed him and the manager of Team England.

"How are you today, Williams?" asked Kingsley, considerably cooler to the man than he had been just moments before. Harry wondered whether the two men had a history he wasn't privy to.

"I'm all right," came a curt answer from Williams, "considering that my nerves are wound tighter than a rubber band in anticipation of tonight." He paused for a moment before setting his eyes on Harry, "Ah, there you are!" He extended a hand, which Harry warily shook. "So nice to meet the savior of our race," he said in an oily fashion that reminded Harry a bit of Snape. He didn't know what it was, but something didn't strike Harry as quite right with the man. Harry looked over to Kingsley, with a markedly annoyed stare; Kingsley just shrugged as if to say 'I didn't invite him.'

"I have a once in a lifetime offer to make you," Williams said, grinning arrogantly. "I know the members on Team England would give their arms to meet you. While I hope you don't require that sacrifice, as I do want to have a standing chance at things, I wanted to know if you'd come and agree to meet the players in the locker room with me. And after that, you can spend the game on the sidelines."

Ron's mouth fell open even wider, and Harry saw him trying to speak, but apparently, Ron was too flabbergasted to speak, instead mumbling incoherently.

"What's his problem?" Williams joked, his face tightening in disappointment when he didn't get an answer.

Harry already knew Ron's answer, but he had his misgivings. He didn't enjoy being fawned over as a celebrity. He wanted to live his life in a semblance of normalcy. If his decision was to solely affect him, he would have politely declined the offer, but the simple fact was that it impacted his friends as well. Turning to face Ginny, he looked at her questioningly.

She knew what he was thinking without his having to voice a question. "It would mean a lot to me, Harry. Gwenog Jones is on the team, and I would give anything to have a chance to talk to her. But if you're not comfortable, that's fine with me," she whispered.

The tips of his mouth curled into a small, tense smile. While she didn't want to put him in any situation that was uncomfortable, he knew that she, like Ron was jumping at the chance. She had admitted to him in the past about her potential desire to play Quidditch professionally. He had made up his mind, and he turned to face Williams again. "I'll meet with the players, but on one condition."

"Sure, Harry," Williams responded, calling Harry by his name for the first time. "Name it."

"There's to be no acknowledgement of my presence to the audience. At least not officially. I'm not your mascot."

Veeck Williams frowned momentarily. The little he had learned about the man led Harry to believe that he had definitely wanted to make some sort of promotion out of "The Boy Who Lived." Harry wouldn't allow it. "Done," Wiliams replied tersely. "It'll be great motivation for our team though," he said, "if someone like you can beat the Dark Lord, then anything's possible," he added, barely audible.

Harry ignored the comment as Williams led him out of the tent. Harry looked back at Kingsley who shook his head. "You guys go. I'll see you at the opening ceremony of the game."

Williams led them, walking without a sound, trying to avoid the paparazzi that seemed to be trying to take more pictures of him than Harry. Harry laughed to himself as he realized that this was probably the only thing the two men had in common.

"So, who is this guy?" Hermione asked.

Ron stopped in his tracks, looking scandalized, "You don't know who Veeck Williams is?"

"Other than the fact that he is coaching the national team, no, Ronald. I'm not the one who would rather research Quidditch statistics than snog."

Harry and Ginny broke out into a raucous laugh as the color of Ron's face once again matched his hair as he mumbled something that sounded like, "I'm not the one who'd rather do research though."

"Oy! Keep up with me! I haven't got all day!" Williams called, plainly irritated.

The group of friends resumed walking, following Williams. "I can't believe you've never even heard of him, though," Ron said, "he's only the most brilliant Quidditch mind of our generation."

"He also used to be the twins' Quidditch idol," added Ginny, a genuine smile on her face as she thought of fond memories of Fred. "He's revolutionized Quidditch promotions."

Harry was only listening to half of what was said, as he was now trying his best to ignore the photographers who were now flanking them as they made their way to the stadium. "Why don't we just Apparate?" Harry called to Williams.

"Are you mad?" Williams asked. "We've got to keep anti-Apparition charms within twenty yards of the stadium. We can't have just anyone gaining access to the locker room. Besides, it's good exercise!"

"Anyway," Ron continued, "Williams is most known for a couple things. The Exploding Scoreboard that literally exploded whenever a Chaser scored…they had to sack that idea after some of the crowd was burned, the great goat debacle."

Ginny giggled, "That was the twins' favorite! He actually put a goat on a broom and had it play Chaser after a Falcon's game was out of hand and kept him in there until the game was over!"

"Yeah, it actually scored too," Ron laughed. "Hit right off the goat's head and went into the hoop. Then there was Jamal the ageless, the greatest player of the 1800's. Williams signed him right when he began to manage the Falcons, and at the age of one-hundred seventy three, Williams was both the oldest player to ever play a Quidditch game and the only player to play in three centuries. Too bad a rogue bludger hit him in the head and killed him," said Ron.

Harry was getting the distinct impression that the man didn't really care too much about the actual game, just that he wanted to put on a show. He put his head down, mulling it all over. Lifting his head a few moments later, he blinked a few times; somehow, without him realizing it, they had reached the locker room.

"Stay here while I make sure the team is all decent," said Veeck, opening the locker room door and disappearing behind it. The corridor Harry stood in was painted white, with a concrete floor. It smelled like a gym, reeking of sweat and other bodily secretions.

After a few moments, Williams poked his head out again and beckoned the four in.

"Team, I'd like to introduce the savior of the wizarding world, Harry Potter."

Harry stepped into the room, self-conscious as ever. He was a little unnerved by the fact that these world-class Quidditch players were staring, awe-struck at the sight of him. He smiled as he felt Ginny's hand snake its way into his and give it a reassuring squeeze. A familiar face rushed up and held out a hand.

"Congrats, Harry. I always knew you would do it!" said Harry's former Quidditch captain, Oliver Wood.

"Oliver, good to see you," Harry said sincerely.

"Good to see you too," Oliver responded.

"So, I see you've made it pretty well in Quidditch."

"Ah, I'm just the reserve Keeper," Oliver brushed the comment aside nonchalantly.

"But at least you made it onto the team," Ginny pointed out.

"That's right, I suppose that's an accomplishment in itself," Oliver admitted. "Come, I'll introduce you to the rest of the team!"

The next three hours were a blur. Harry met at least twenty Quidditch players he had never before heard of in his life, as well as some he had. Ginny had almost immediately broken apart from Harry, kissing him before she went off to talk to Gwenog Jones, her favorite player, and captain of the Holyhead Harpies.

Harry must have been asked at least a hundred times about how it felt to be Harry Potter. How could he honestly answer that? That it was a hardship and he longed for a normal life that he'd never had? He couldn't say that. These people just wouldn't understand. After all, Quidditch afforded them a lavish lifestyle and plenty of publicity that most didn't seem to want to stray from. To them it was a novelty, to Harry it was an unwanted burden. Any thoughts he had of playing Quidditch professionally flew from his mind, and he was suddenly glad he had come. He just wasn't cut from the cloth of a Quidditch player.

The game itself was a glorious event, a great example of sports at their finest. To Ron and Ginny's surprise, Veeck Williams was extremely subdued, even as his team fell into an early hole. For all that Harry didn't like about the man, he had to credit Williams with the ability to keep his word. No mention had been made that Harry was on the field, and the only person who had really paid him any real attention was Kingsley, but Harry welcomed that. There were a few female trainers who had been trying to flirt with Harry early in the game, but fierce looks from Ginny quickly scared them off.

Harry had just been relaxing, his arm around Ginny's shoulder as they sat watching the game when he spotted the Golden Snitch. He jerked his body, eliciting a playful shove from Ginny, but eagerly watched the Seekers, Krum and Hector Conley, Team England's seeker. The two dueled in midair, and Harry thoroughly enjoyed the aerial spectacle.

Conley pulled ahead, and was in arm's length of the Snitch. Just as he reached out his arm, a Bludger shot out of nowhere and he had to execute a sudden barrel-roll to simply stay on his broom, giving Krum a chance to pull ahead of Conley. He reached out and snared the Snitch, not noticing the return volley from England Beater Brutus Edwards. The Bludger hit him square in the chest, knocking Krum off his broom, and the breath out of Krum. Even without bothering to look, Harry knew Ron was beaming a brilliant, toothy grin from ear to ear as the Snitch popped out of Krum's right hand and right into the hand of Conley, who pulled his broom upwards and shot towards the sky, hooting in victory.

"Ron?" asked Hermione, tapping his shoulder to gain his attention.

"Hmm?"

"Didn't Viktor catch the Snitch? Shouldn't Bulgaria win?" she asked.

"Well, yeah he did, but the rules state that you have to have possession of the Snitch for at least five seconds before the points are awarded. In fact, one of the most well-known games of Quidditch--" Ron's mouth kept moving, but all sound was lost as a loud burst of noise signaled the first of the fireworks.

Harry leaned over and captured Ginny in a deep kiss as red and white fireworks went off around them in celebration of England's victory, the first in over one hundred years. Harry wondered how it could ever get better than this.

After the game, Harry tried to hurry out of the stadium as quickly as possible to avoid the press, nearly dragging Ginny, Hermione and Ron, who seemed distressed that Harry wouldn't let him spend more time in the locker room, with him. Just as they were about to exit the stadium through the staff exit, an out-of-breath Veeck Williams finally caught up with them.

"Harry, I just want to thank you for what you did today," he said, holding out a hand.

"Yeah, well thanks for keeping your word," Harry responded.

"I always do. I wouldn't have made this into a publicity stunt anyway," Williams said smoothly. Harry still didn't believe him though. "I've seen you play at Hogwarts when I paid my scouting visit there a few years ago, and you've got plenty of natural skill. If you want to play, there's an open spot as the Falcons' Seeker."

"What about Munroe?" Ron asked

"He's easily sacked or made a reserve," responded Williams, brushing off the notion that his incumbent starter should remain one.

"I think I'm going to have to decline," Harry said. "Thanks for the offer and all, but it's just not for me."

Williams cast a speculative look at Ginny, seeming to size her up. She squirmed a bit under his gaze, clearly uncomfortable. "Alright, that's your right, I suppose. I can't believe you're passing on what's everyone's dream job, though. National attention, championships, all the girls one could want…"

"It's not my dream," Harry responded. He put a firm arm around Ginny, "And I've already got the only girl I want or need." Ginny blushed, wearing a smile that only enhanced her beauty.

Veeck didn't respond, simply leaving the exit to go back to the locker room. "Drinks are on me, boys!" echoed his voice, "And girls," he added more than a few moments later. Harry supposed that Gwenog had shot the man a piercing look.

The four friends made their way back to the campsite, idly talking amongst themselves, and not really paying attention to the people around them.

The area around Kingsley's tent was now vacant and devoid of people, as people were still sitting in the stadium or in the rush of people trying to leave the stadium. They stopped at Kingsley's tent, and gathering their packs, Ron and Hermione Apparated back to the Burrow, while Harry and Ginny again waited behind.

"Did you have fun today?" Harry asked Ginny.

Ginny looked up at him and gave him a luminous grin. "I did," she nodded. "And I have to thank you for everything, all the attention couldn't be easy for you."

"It wasn't," Harry admitted, shrugging, "but you know I'd do anything for you." _I've already died for you._ His thought went unsaid, but by the look that came upon her face, he was sure it had crossed both their minds.

She stood on her tiptoes, and they brought their mouths together. Harry ran a hand along the small of Ginny's back and she purred into his mouth. They were lost in each other for what seemed like forever, albeit an extremely pleasant forever. All too soon, they were interrupted by an annoyingly familiar voice.

"Well, well, look who we've got here," said the unmistakable whining voice of Draco Malfoy. "Odd meeting you here," sarcasm was evident in his voice, "at the World Cup of Quidditch. Here to soak up even more glory and fame now that you're the 'Man Who Saved the World?'"

Harry ignored the question. "What are you doing here, Draco?" he asked, put off by the tone in Draco's voice. Ginny also was clearly annoyed, but Harry cheekily thought that might be more because Draco had interrupted their intimate moment.

"I'm just stopping through. I am allowed to walk where I want, aren't I, Potter?" Draco spat.

"Of course you are."

"Then I'd suggest you move. I don't really need to see you and the Weasel here eat each other whole. I nearly lost my lunch."

It was just then that Harry noticed the haggard appearance of his former rival. Draco looked emaciated and dirty, in need of a bath and a good meal. "Doesn't look like you ate one," Ginny responded.

"Shut your Muggle-loving mouth," Draco said tersely. "Where's your Mud-blood shadow anyway, Potter?

"What's wrong with you, Malfoy?" Harry asked. He had evidently been fooling himself when he thought that Draco had finally been turning a corner.

"None of your business. I've just seen the truth of the people you try to protect. No wonder Voldemort wanted to kill all of them."

Harry hissed and Ginny reached for her wand. "Draco," Harry said through clenched teeth, "I'd suggest you get out of here now."

"Gladly," said Draco, dragging his feet past the two, making sure that his shoulder collided with Harry's as he passed.

Harry's brows furrowed as anger screwed over his face. "Let it go, Harry, the ferret isn't worth your time," Ginny said as she threw her arms around him in a hug and lay her head on his chest. "What do you say we head back to the burrow?"

Harry quickly forgot his anger as his body responded to Ginny's touch. Part of his mind still dwelled on Malfoy as he Apparated himself and Ginny back to the Burrow. Draco looked as if he'd been chewed and spit out by a pack of ravenous dogs and the curious side of Harry wanted to know exactly what had happened, but he let it go as the squeezing sensation took over his body.


End file.
